Goodbye, Brother [7/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 09:34:58 UTC
But not because he dislikes the Northern nation, or because he finds him appalling, and not even because Canada is about two inches or so taller than him.
It’s because England is holding his hand, smiling encouragingly at him. Because England is smiling at Canada like he does at a America, and America rips off one of his stuffed bunny’s ears with a harsh, tearing sound.
Looking down at his stuffed toy, America becomes even angrier when he sees it’s the stuffed animal England just recently brought him that he’s destroyed.
Stupid Canada.
Canada hides behind England’s legs, peering shyly at a America. “H-hello,” he murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m Canada.”
There’s a bear clutched to his chest, and America thinks its stupid looking. Actually, everything about Canada is stupid looking, not just his bear. Never mind that their faces look eerily similar, America is obviously the cutest of the two.
England doesn’t seem to think so though; he dotes on Canada like he dotes on America, he hugs and carries them both, and he even lets Canada crawl on his lap when it’s story time. America has half a mind to kick the other province off, but he has a nagging feeling England would get mad at him and cancel story time altogether. So he refrains, but grudgingly and just barely.
When England leaves them alone to make tea and scones, America jumps off his seat and stares his nose down at Canada. He crosses his arms, taking in the competition.
“He’s mine, so don’t get close to him,” he warns the other child, mutilated bunny at his side.
“Eh?” Canada blinks, and squeaks when cerulean eyes glare at him.
“England,” America says, pronouncing each letter slowly. “He’s my big brother, and you can’t have him.”
Canada looks confused, and just when America is about to raise the ruined bunny and bring it down on the other province’s head, England walks in with tea and scones. Glaring at Canada one last time, America pivots and run to catch England around his waist with a giant smile on his face, the picture of innocence. “England, England!” he giggles, holding his arms up. “Up?”
England picks him up with one arm, carrying the tray with the other one. He sets the tray down on the table, and pushes it closer to Canada. “Help yourself, love,” he offers, smiling warmly at the young province.
Riding on England’s arm, America glares icily at Canada. The message is clear: Don’t. You. Dare. England’s horrible cooking was for America’s taste buds only. If someone was going to get a stomachache and be sick all over the expensive rug, it was going to be America.
Canada wilts under America’s glare, and he quickly shakes his head. His voice trembles. “N-no thank you, England.”
England frowns, about to push the matter but America quickly draws the empire’s attention back to him. He’s not about to let Canada hog England all to himself. America was here first, and therefore it made sense that he should get to call first dibs.
By the time the sun sets, America has managed to overshadow Canada in absolutely everything, and he’s mighty proud of himself. This would show the Northern nation not to barge into his perfectly happy life with England.
Goodbye, Brother [8/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 09:38:32 UTC
But of course, once the sun sets, the dreaded hour arrives, as does the enemy.
“But I don’t want to take a bath, England!” America cries, latching onto the older nation’s middle.
England winces at the force his charge’s little hands are holding onto him, the colony‘s angelic baby face and preteen body belying his true strength. Nonetheless, he smiles down at the boy and musses his hair. “Then you shouldn’t have played in the mud in the first place, my sweet.”
America shakes his head back and forth furiously, tears pooling in his baby blues. His bottom lip quivers, and England feels his resolve weakening. He coughs, composing himself. “America, poppet, it won’t kill you to take a bath. Did I not raise you to be a gentleman? A gentleman does not sleep in his own filth.”
“I like sleeping in my own filth,” America grumbles, careful not to bruise England with his grip. “Sleeping in my own filth is fun.”
England clicks his tongue in dissatisfaction, and America takes a second to observe how the empire furrows his brow, the way his gloved fingers drum against his hips, and the way his green eyes narrow slightly only to soften seconds later. England‘s expressions have always been so fascinating to America. “Perhaps you wish to take a bath with Canada? That way you will get to know each other better.”
“No!” America shakes his head, pouting. “I want to take a bath with England!”
England runs a hand through his hair, a thoughtful look coming to his face. “How about we all take a bath together, hmm? Canada is a bit shy, but he’s a good boy, dearest.”
America whines in distress, stomping his feet. “England!”
In the end, despite America’s many protests, he finds himself in the tub, with England and Canada at his side. America is in such a bad mood that he can’t even properly enjoy England’s company. He blames this on Canada too, for ruining his alone time with England.
He hates having another brother. Why couldn’t it just be England and him forever? America has never been any good at sharing.
“You’ll come visit again, won’t you, dear Canada?” England is in such a good mood. His smile is so wide America fears it might split his face in two. “I won’t always be here of course, but you can come play with our America. It can’t be all that healthy for you to spend so much time with that French idiot.”
Canada fights off a smile at the empire’s comment on his current guardian. He ducks his head shyly. “Yes. I’d like that very much, England.”
America splashes water at him, hating being the third wheel. He gets a time out for that, but he doesn’t care. England is looking at him again, the way it should always be, and he sticks his tongue out at Canada when the empire isn’t looking. Canada looks down at his feet, and America feels better.
Goodbye, Brother [9/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 09:43:05 UTC
As if America would let Canada take England’s love away from him. Ha! France should just come and take his province back with him, otherwise America would do something really mean to the Northern nation. Besides, England was bound to get bored of Canada soon, he was France’s territory, and there was nothing England hated more than the proclaimed nation of love. America didn’t like him either; he was the one who gave England all those injuries. Every time France came to visit him (on the off chance that America changed his mind on who he wanted as a big brother), America made sure to slam the door on his face.
That would teach the dirty pervert to manhandle England.
“Sweet dreams, my little ones.” England kisses both of them on the forehead when it’s time for bed, his nightshirt stark white against the darkness of the room once the wax candle is extinguished. “Sleep tight.”
America wants to sleep in the same bed with England, but he refrains from calling out to the empire when he closes the door. Canada is here, and America doesn’t want to share the experience with him. He’d much rather stay with the urge to sleep in England’s arms than share his colonizer with his new brother.
Stupid Canada. This is another thing he’s ruined for America.
“I hate you,” he says to the darkness, a heavy scowl on his face.
“I know,” comes Canada’s soft, near whisper response. America can’t see it, but he’s sure the taller colony is clutching his bear to his chest.
“Stay away from England.” America turns around and glares at what he presumes is Canada in the darkness. “He’s mine.”
“I’m not trying to steal England away from you, America,” Canada promises just as softly. He sounds dejected, and America feels a tad bit guilty for about a second before he scoffs loudly. “I have a big brother of my own you know.”
Inwardly thinking England is a much better big brother than France, America grouses, “You better not.”
Because if he did, America really would sock him in the face.
“W-where are you going?” Canada asks when America throws his side of the covers away, his feet dangling off the bed.
“Nowhere,” America answers, jumping off the divan. He takes his pillow with him. “Don’t follow me.”
The corridor is dark and ominous; America has half a mind to turn around and return to his room. The promise of England at the end of the corridor keeps him going though, and the moonlight peeking out through the window helps make the night look less scary.
The door to England’s room is slightly ajar. A servant girl, one with her dark hair in pigtails, is getting ready to close the door when her equally dark eyes land on America. She blinks, but says nothing when she sees the familiar blonde head and cerulean eyes of the young master of the house. Instead, she smiles a shaky smile and lets the young colony pass before going her way. America watches her go, briefly wondering what she was doing in England’s room so late at night. Shaking his head, America peeks his head into the room and his eyes immediately land on the canopy bed. Arthur is reading a book by candle light, his emerald green eyes focused on the old, dusty pages instead of the little colony silently making his way to the divan.
Goodbye, Brother [10/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 09:48:01 UTC
Holding his pillow to his chest, America shuffles his feet nervously. “England, can I sleep together with you?” he asks shyly, not looking at his colonizer in the eye.
England puts his book down at the sound of America’s voice. He blinks in surprise at seeing America in his room, not having expected to see the boy after tucking him in. He smiles nonetheless, and pats the space next to him. “I guess it can’t be helped. Come here, love.”
America doesn’t need to be told twice; he crawls into the bed, dragging his pillow along with him. England sweeps him into the warmth of his arms, and smiles at him, and that makes America happy, but not as much as when England tucks his chin on his shoulder and whispers, “I’ve missed you, my dear boy.”
America missed England much, much more, but he says nothing. England gets a sad look on his face whenever America complains too much about how much the empire leaves him alone, and America doesn’t like seeing England sad. He’ll leave that for later. It’s an unbecoming action at his age, but America knows that once it’s time for England to leave, he’ll cling to the edges of his colonizer’s clothes and cry and beg him to say, even though he knows it’s pointless.
“I’ve been visiting you a lot less lately, haven’t I?” England muses, with that vulnerable, sad smile that America associates with England feeling guilt. “You must think me a horrible parental figure. Every time I come back, you’ve grown up so much since the last time I saw you. I feel like one day something very important is going to happen and I won’t be here to witness it.”
“Don’t be sad, England,” America murmurs, on the verge of tears himself. “I don’t like it when you’re sad.”
England takes his hand, kissing the knuckles chastely. He attempts a happier smile. “Sorry, moppet. This old man is just a bit tired from the voyage here. The king was reluctant to let me come, so I can’t stay for long this time either.”
America frowns, thoroughly disappointed despite himself. “Do you always have to do what the king says?”
Closing his eyes with a tired sigh, England pats his colony’s head. “The king is someone very dear to me, love. You’ll understand when you’re older what it means to be a country, and all the responsibilities that come with it.”
“Do you love the king more than you love me?”
Opening his eyes, England’s hand retreats. His smile disappears, and his body seems to get colder. America bites his lower lip, afraid he’s said something wrong.
“America,” the empire says softly, his voice subdued, almost wistful. “America, you must understand. We are not like people, dear. We do not have the freedom to give ourselves entirely to someone else. Our duty, our bodies, everything we are belongs to our people. They are us, and we are them. They must always come first.”
America doesn’t understand, and it must show on his face because England draws him close to his chest, as if to comfort him. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, my sweet boy. If there is one thing we as countries can give away freely, it is our feelings. I will always love you, dearest America.”
“But that doesn’t mean you get to be selfish,” England goes on, running his fingers through America’s hair. “You will always have my love, poppet. But don’t ever ask everything of me, for I cannot give it to you.”
Goodbye, Brother [11/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 09:52:58 UTC
“Because I’m your colony?” America can’t help but ask, little hands fisting England’s nightshirt. The tears are threatening to fall at any moment now.
England nods slowly, almost like he doesn’t want to but can’t really bring himself to lie. “Yes. In a way, that does play a role in the matter. I can never be yours the same way you are mine, but I do love you so very much, America. Never forget or doubt my feelings for you.”
“If…if you can’t be mine, then can you at least never love anyone more than you love me?” America bites his lower lip nervously, fidgeting with his hands. “Um. Besides the Mother Country that is,” he adds hastily, cheeks flushed a bright pink.
England blinks, surprised. Then he laughs, the smile America loves so much lighting up his face. “You stubborn, stubborn boy. Fine.” Another chuckle, another smile, and America’s cheeks grow warmer at the sound of England’s laughter. “I promise. You’ll be my number one, and no one will ever take your place. Happy?”
America is. He is immensely happy. He laughs along with England when the empire sweeps him up his arms again, kissing both his cheeks before ordering him to go to bed. America does without protest, happy to go to sleep encased in England’s warmth.
He’s lulled to sleep by the sound of England’s heartbeat. America makes the most of being in England’s arms, fully aware that he would have to make do without everything that was England for a long time once the busy empire left for the motherland.
But it was okay, because England always came back to America. He always did, and he always would.
- -
- -
Years pass, and America grows taller.
And as his body grows, so does his mind.
He goes outside more, always careful to keep his strength at bay lest he be accused of being a demon. It has happen before, when one of his nannies accidentally saw him carrying his wounded horse to the stables. America does not know what happened to her; England said he would take care of it, and America never saw the old nanny again. It was the first time he’d seen England look so serious, but when he promised America that everything would be okay and to not worry, America had simply shrugged his shoulders and gone off to play outside.
Outside; it’s a new world to him, the bustling towns and lively villagers. The house England purchased for him is big and mostly isolated, far from the civilizations of the towns. The servants are few and silent, and every five years or so, England replaces them with a new bunch. As to how he replaces them, America does not know. He never sees them again though, and he never asks England about them either.
The friends he’s made are a new breath of fresh air. He’s learned more from them than he’s ever learned from his many tutors. In fact, he often skips his lessons to go to the prairie with them, or to the stables. They share secrets and jokes and stories; the thrilling adventures they have together make for great memories as well.
Goodbye, Brother [12/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 09:57:44 UTC
But recently, their most discussed topic has become that of fluttering skirts and bell-like giggles, coy eyes and plump, cheery pink lips. America is confused as to why they have stopped pulling pranks on the girls and begun to fetch their handkerchiefs for them instead of planting bugs in their food. He does not understand the reason why suddenly having the girls play with them takes priority over crusading through the forests.
The boys turned teenagers talk of kisses behind the farmhouse, of the sweet pastor’s daughter who blushes prettily whenever one of the boys looks at her. They nudge America with their elbows, and with waggling eyebrows ask him for his opinion on who the prettiest girl in town is.
They ask America which girl he likes best, and all America can think of is England and how much he misses him.
He hasn’t seen England in years. Canada visits him often, but England hasn’t come to see him a long time. America knows that as the Mother Country England has to prioritize his work over him, but that doesn’t meant America has to like it. He wishes England would stay with him forever, not two, maybe three weeks a year.
America misses England’s smiles, his hugs, and even his horrible cooking. America misses sleeping in the same bed as England, because England always let him crawl in his bed during a storm or whenever America felt lonely in his too big room. England would wrap his arms around America and hold him close to his breast, gently threading his fingers through the colony’s golden hair to reassure him that everything was okay. England’s arms were always so tender when he held him, his lips so soft and gentle on America’s forehead. The sound of England’s heartbeat beneath America’s ear always helped him fall sleep, as did the scent that was indubitably England that clung to the empire’s skin. It was a gentle, comforting scent that smelled faintly of something sweet and coppery that America couldn’t quite name. Whatever it was, America had come to identify the scent as England, and he often buried his face in the crook of his colonizer’s neck to get a better whiff of it whenever England held him close while they slept.
He feels his cheeks heat up at the memory, and when his friends ask him what’s wrong, America quickly shakes his head and says it’s nothing.
It’s not ‘nothing’ though, America knows it’s not just ‘nothing’. If it was, he wouldn’t-
“Now listen here, young master Jones,” a dry, satirical voice snaps America out of his daze, and he starts when a ruler is swiftly brought down inches away from where his hand is poised to take notes, but is actually doing no such thing. “I am here for one thing, and one thing only, and that is to fill that empty little head of yours with knowledge. Sadly, you remain as stubborn as a mule, and refuse to learn anything. Master Kirkland will not be pleased with your development, child.”
The governess is a young woman by all means, and America often hears the servants gossip in the kitchen about her. They speak mostly of her pretty face, and how it was the only reason England had hired her. The servants speak of other things, foreign words and strange phrases America does not fully understand but somehow still make him feel an odd, warm feeling in the pit of his stomach
Goodbye, Brother [13/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 10:02:04 UTC
The one word that stood out most of all was the word ‘love’, and America remembers breaking whatever had been in his hands at the time. America’s old nursemaid, the only servant England has never fired in the past forty years since he brought her from the motherland, patches his bleeding hands quickly, and although she inquires the details of how he came to hurt himself, America does not answer her.
England in love with the young pretty governess?
America is surprised by how angry this piece of knowledge makes him feel.
Puffing his cheeks out, he shrugs his shoulder at the strict woman. “Arthur is always pleased with me,” he retorts, forgetting all of his ingrained manners and chivalry. The bubbling anger is there, it is always there whenever he is in the woman’s presence. “He doesn’t care if I don’t pay attention to stupid lessons.”
Slender brows draw together in disapproval, a set of cupid bow lips set into a frown. “Young master Jones, I suggest you hold your tongue if you have nothing pleasant to say,” she replies loftily, a subtle warning for the young nation to return to the lesson at hand.
Although she was his governess, she had nothing to do with America’s studies but everything to do with his training in manners and court behavior. America had tutors for that, and a Spanish scholar of sharp intellect and broad learning, who had decreed America’s lessons must be rigorous, in charge of overseeing his studies. His name was Juan Luis Vives, and he was thin lipped and ill-tempered. Tufts of dark hair sprouted from his ears. He was never without his walking stick, which had a silver knob at the top in the shape of a fox’s head. America fancied it resembled the tutor himself.
“I see that you have been badly spoiled,” he’d purred in their first lesson, like a cat about to pounce on a mouse. Then he changed into a roaring lion. “It is my belief that children should feel the rod upon their backs at least once a day.”
America remembers feeling slightly sick at the tutor’s words. He’d seen the children of his nannies slapped once or twice, and on one account he’d even seen England reprimand his own servants, but not once had England or anyone else ever struck him.
“Don’t be afraid of him, dear,” his old nursemaid comforted him, hours later after America had rushed to his bedchambers to avoid the wrath of his tutor. “Your brother, Master Kirkland, has made it plain that he is not to lay a hand upon you.”
“I’m not afraid of him!” America had denied the accusation in a heartbeat, but even to this day, he goes out of his way to avoid the scary man. At least until England came back, and then America could ask him to fire the Spaniard and hire a new tutor for him. England hated the Spanish just as much as he hated the French; America was sure he would get him an English tutor once he found out the head butler he left in charge of his colony hired a Spaniard to tutor his little brother.
America’s governess, on the other hand, was completely different from the Spanish scholar, even though they were alike in some aspects. She too was strict, but rather than parade around with an awful stick, she taught America with polite, cold mannerisms that made the colony want to throw his books in the air just to spite her. Whenever America was not with Vives or his tutors in religion and theology or his music teachers, he was with his governess, learning all the rules concerning sitting, standing, kneeling, eating, drinking, dressing, speaking, and every other public act. The lessons were excruciatingly boring, and because the lessons were taught by her, America hated them even more.
Goodbye, Brother [14/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 10:06:32 UTC
England’s lover, the servants called her behind America’s back, careful not let the young master of the house overheard their gossip. She was England’s lover, and that was the only reason why she’d been hired to tutor the master’s younger brother when so many others, many more better qualified, could have been hired for the job.
England had indeed hired her the last time he visited America, a little more than four years ago. America was waiting for the day England would return to fire her too. It was what England always did when too many years passed and America showed no signs of aging.
But lately, America had been growing so fast. The first time the governess set foot in the house America had stood as tall as a nine year old. Four years had gone by and now America looked those nine plus four years.
And with those years came new feelings, new sensations and thoughts that made all the blood in his body rush to his face. America doesn’t know what to call them, but they feel alike to running through the vast, open forests without curfew, without rules and without inhibitions.
It’s a strange, scary feeling, and America finds he likes it immensely. And why wouldn’t he? It’s England who makes him feel like this, the same England who America loves so dearly.
So it’s understandable for him to hate the governess. She was trying to take England away from America, of course he would hate her. America was number one in England’s heart, and America was the one England loved best, yet here she was trying to take that position away from him.
“Young master Jones?” Arching a slender eyebrow, the young governess’s honey-brown eyes narrow slightly.
America scoffs, his arms crossed over his chest. He glares at the woman, hating her pretty face and long curly hair and everything else about her that England might like. “You’re no my mother, you don’t tell me what to do.”
Her left eyebrow twitches, her lips pressed into a tight line. “I am not, young master Jones, but if I was your mother, I would wash your mouth with soap.”
“I don’t have a mother,” he replies through gritted teeth, his hands tight fists. He can feel the anger bubble, just waiting to explode. It’s been happening a lot lately, these bouts of sudden, unexplainable anger. He doesn’t know why he’s always angry these days, but he does know the rage is somehow connected to the warm fluttery feeling he gets whenever he thinks of England. “I don’t need one either.”
She looks like she might say something else, or even hit him. She refrains, and takes a deep, long breath, the ruler trembling in her hands. “I pity Master Kirkland,” she says at length, her honey-brown eyes like ice, “for having such a troublesome brother. Not many men his age would stick around to raise their siblings, especially when they are as rotten as you are, young master Jones.”
The words strike a chord in America’s chest, making something twist in his heart. For a second, it feels like he can’t breath, and the room spins. “I’m not a chore,” he says at last, and the pretty governess clucks her tongue.
Goodbye, Brother [15/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 10:17:23 UTC
“All children are chores, young master Jones,” she smiles merrily, smacking the ruler into the palm of her hand. “Master Kirkland provides for you because you are a child, and he will continue to do so until you come of age. Only then, will you stop being a chore.”
She was wrong. She was wrong she was wrong she was wrong. She [had] to be wrong, because if England did not love America…if England didn’t…if England…
“Arthur loves me!” America slams his hands on the desk, the pile of books falling on the thick Persian rug. There’s a loud crack, a sick crunch of wood, and the cheery oak desk crumbles from the force of America’s attack. The governess eyes widen, her hand covering her mouth in horror and she takes a step back. “Arthur loves me more than he loves anyone!”
America grits his teeth, his molars grinding together. His shoulders are shaking, and he does not know if it’s from anger or from the sting of tears in his eyes. “He would pick me over you any day!”
The crown jewel of England, the pearl of England’s world, wasn’t that who America was?
“Yes, I would pick you, Alfred my love.”
Both America and the governess startle. Leaning casually against the library’s closed doors, England smacks his cane into the palm of his hand in the same manner the governess had done mere minutes ago. The action looks more intimidating coming from England, the rich blue and gold of his attire brightening the gloomy library. Like always, he is dressed like a perfect gentleman, not a ruffle out of place. Setting his cane done with a solid thud, he clears the space between him and America with quick, elegant strides. The soles of his high topped boots meeting the floor are the only sound in the room.
America blinks up at him, and realizes with surprise that he stands around three inches and a half above England’s shoulder. He opens his mouth, wanting to say something, anything-but his heart is beating so fast and all he can manage to do is look up at England with wide blue eyes and red cheeks.
He swallows thickly, his tongue as dry as sandpaper. His hands are sticky with sweat, and America feels something akin to butterflies in his stomach. “England-”
“Alfred.” England’s expressions softens, the hard lines disappearing from his face and his lips quirk into a gentle smile. He takes a step backward, and runs his green eyes over the length of America’s body. America’s cheeks turn a darker red. “It seems my little man has done some serious growing,” he states proudly, and leans down to kiss America chastely on the forehead, one gloved hand caressing the colony’s cheek sweetly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner, poppet. Do you forgive me?”
America would have forgiven England for anything as long as he kept smiling at him like that.
---
Orz. Sorry, random!author!anon has been sleeping for the past 48 hours. Some really important exams are right around the corner, so even though these parts were done three days ago, I didn’t have time to post them. Never study and forget to sleep, anons, it tires you out hardcore. FYI America is 13-ish here, so expect more of the awkwardness that comes with puberty and hormones soon. Like, wet dreams and inconvenient morning wood hurhurhur~
Please ignore any grammatical errors, it’s 5 AM as I post this ;D
Retarded play-by-play b/c I fail like that! :D
anonymous
April 18 2010, 10:54:07 UTC
I love America's decision to hog England's borderline poisonous all to himself here, as well as his general possessiveness; obviously it has dark overtones, especially for a small child, but it works really well the way you write it.
“I like sleeping in my own filth,” America grumbles, careful not to bruise England with his grip. “Sleeping in my own filth is fun.” This is just awesome, although ... it's a bit scary that he has to worry about physically hurting England just holding onto him. Then again, it's probably just as scary that he's so aware of the need to hold back. ^_^;
England is looking at him again, the way it should always be, and he sticks his tongue out at Canada when the empire isn’t looking. Creepy or cute? I don't even know ... >_>
Oh god, anon, England calls him 'love'. ;asdj fkaf My ultimate weakness, how did you knoooow?
“You must think me a horrible parental figure. Every time I come back, you’ve grown up so much since the last time I saw you. I feel like one day something very important is going to happen and I won’t be here to witness it.” Why England, how naughty! Your foreshadowing is showing. :O
Oh lord, the nanny that saw America carrying his horse ... D:
They ask America which girl he likes best, and all America can think of is England and how much he misses him. Oh America, you're so ... honest. <3
Um. It was a gentle, comforting scent that smelled faintly of something sweet and coppery that America couldn’t quite name. Somehow, that scent kinda sounds forboding, anon. D:D
Daaaamn, England's interest in that last scene in part 15 gave me the biggest hard-on for that character EVER. Good god, anon. And good job, for that matter. <3
Re: Goodbye, Brother [15/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 12:35:23 UTC
Well, even though waiting up longer when I said I would didn't quite help... reading all this definitely made up for all the waiting! Random!anon, you're amazing, filling this prompt beautifully. I was a little worried that by writing about puberty, you were gonna skip all those years and go immediately into when Al is like 16 or something but instead you give us all this lovely desrcription :'D. I felt it was much needed for Alfie to meet Canada and it played out great -even with all the rivalry. Perfect ^^ Also, this Brit!Anon appreciates England using 'love' <3 ...you make sure you get enough sleep and post next parts soon!!! *wet dreams and morning wood? HELL YEAH!*
Re: Goodbye, Brother [15/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 15:44:20 UTC
Oh anon... this is so good. The writing, the descriptions, the dialogue, America's thoughts and how they are childishly dark, yet slightly mature all at once. This is an amazing fill anon, and I can wait to read the next installment ♥
Re: Goodbye, Brother [15/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 15:44:26 UTC
Thank you Thank you Thank you for the update! I absolutely love this fic, and I'm delighted with every part I read. I can't wait to read about America's oncoming puberty; poor guy; he doesn't know what he's in for! Your England is great. I loved the cuddle scene with America in his arms at night. But woah, what're they going to do now that America is already taller?
Re: Goodbye, Brother [15/?]
anonymous
April 19 2010, 18:14:23 UTC
Eeeeeeeee...
This is so seemingly unintentionally dark (but I know you're doing it on purpose, Author!anon. You're just doing it so well. <3). I love it and I can't wait for more.
What goes on around America is more telling than what America actually focuses on.
Goodbye, Brother [16/?]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 05:13:48 UTC
He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. He wants so badly to tell England how much he missed him. He wants England to know that as long as he’s here now, America will forgive him. America wants to say so many things, but he’s tongue tied and far more nervous than he’s ever been in his entire life.
Maybe it’s England’s heart-melting smile, the way his green eyes fill with love upon seeing America. His posture changes, relaxing, his shoulders no longer as tense and rigid. The cold, strict mask falls off, and his cheeks flush with happiness, his face alight with warm and tender emotions. It could be any of these small details that make America feel as if his very breath has been knocked out of him, his heart threatening to break free from his ribcage.
“Look at you,” England says with a smile-but his smile looks slightly off, just a little bit sad, just a tiny bit forced. He grips America’s shoulders with barely-but-still trembling fingers, holding him at arm’s length. Not that America notices, he’s too busy staring, his mouth slightly agape. “You’ve grown splendidly, America. My dear baby, I hardly recognize you.”
Licking his suddenly dry lips, America wonders what the strange, warm feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach is. The feeling increases when his eyes fall on England’s lips, not really hearing him, much rather entranced by the sensitive coral-pink folds of skin.
It’s at this moment that America notices how England isn’t as tall as he first thought him to be. He’s of smaller stature than most of the men in town, his frame wiry and lean and quite unlike the strong, bulky bodies of the servants tending the farmlands. England is more like the elegant, sophisticated women America often sees in the bigger, richer towns. Strong but refined, proud and clever and with a touch of royalty to go hand-in-hand with their luscious red lips and coy smiles. England is a true gentleman, not a common, regular farm worker with calloused hands.
England wears silk gloves, and beneath those gloves his fingers are adorned with golden rings and heavy emeralds and blood red rubies. They’re strong hands, with strong fingers that curl expertly around the shaft of a jewel-encrusted sword and the butt of a heavy pistol. They’re soft hands, gentle in the way they touch America; they’re loving hands, careful and attentive whenever they make America’s meals.
England rarely wears his gloves when he touches America; it’s his bare, pale fingers that hold America’s bronzed, rougher ones, and never white silk. He wears them any other time, when he shakes hands, when he drinks tea, when he has meetings, or when he does his paperwork. But when he does anything that relates to America, he rarely, if ever, wears his gloves, almost as if everything else was too filthy for him to touch without some sort of protection.
Blushing, America is suddenly struck by how intimate such a gesture is.
“Just make sure you don’t get taller than me, sport,” England chuckles, and America snaps out of his daze. He hasn’t heard a single word England has said, and neither does he hear the hidden layer of what could only be sadness and fake happiness in England’s laughter. “Promise me you’ll always be my precious baby, hmm? Always be my darling, golden boy.”
It’s because England is holding his hand, smiling encouragingly at him. Because England is smiling at Canada like he does at a America, and America rips off one of his stuffed bunny’s ears with a harsh, tearing sound.
Looking down at his stuffed toy, America becomes even angrier when he sees it’s the stuffed animal England just recently brought him that he’s destroyed.
Stupid Canada.
Canada hides behind England’s legs, peering shyly at a America. “H-hello,” he murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m Canada.”
There’s a bear clutched to his chest, and America thinks its stupid looking. Actually, everything about Canada is stupid looking, not just his bear. Never mind that their faces look eerily similar, America is obviously the cutest of the two.
England doesn’t seem to think so though; he dotes on Canada like he dotes on America, he hugs and carries them both, and he even lets Canada crawl on his lap when it’s story time. America has half a mind to kick the other province off, but he has a nagging feeling England would get mad at him and cancel story time altogether. So he refrains, but grudgingly and just barely.
When England leaves them alone to make tea and scones, America jumps off his seat and stares his nose down at Canada. He crosses his arms, taking in the competition.
“He’s mine, so don’t get close to him,” he warns the other child, mutilated bunny at his side.
“Eh?” Canada blinks, and squeaks when cerulean eyes glare at him.
“England,” America says, pronouncing each letter slowly. “He’s my big brother, and you can’t have him.”
Canada looks confused, and just when America is about to raise the ruined bunny and bring it down on the other province’s head, England walks in with tea and scones. Glaring at Canada one last time, America pivots and run to catch England around his waist with a giant smile on his face, the picture of innocence. “England, England!” he giggles, holding his arms up. “Up?”
England picks him up with one arm, carrying the tray with the other one. He sets the tray down on the table, and pushes it closer to Canada. “Help yourself, love,” he offers, smiling warmly at the young province.
Riding on England’s arm, America glares icily at Canada. The message is clear: Don’t. You. Dare. England’s horrible cooking was for America’s taste buds only. If someone was going to get a stomachache and be sick all over the expensive rug, it was going to be America.
Canada wilts under America’s glare, and he quickly shakes his head. His voice trembles. “N-no thank you, England.”
England frowns, about to push the matter but America quickly draws the empire’s attention back to him. He’s not about to let Canada hog England all to himself. America was here first, and therefore it made sense that he should get to call first dibs.
By the time the sun sets, America has managed to overshadow Canada in absolutely everything, and he’s mighty proud of himself. This would show the Northern nation not to barge into his perfectly happy life with England.
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“But I don’t want to take a bath, England!” America cries, latching onto the older nation’s middle.
England winces at the force his charge’s little hands are holding onto him, the colony‘s angelic baby face and preteen body belying his true strength. Nonetheless, he smiles down at the boy and musses his hair. “Then you shouldn’t have played in the mud in the first place, my sweet.”
America shakes his head back and forth furiously, tears pooling in his baby blues. His bottom lip quivers, and England feels his resolve weakening. He coughs, composing himself. “America, poppet, it won’t kill you to take a bath. Did I not raise you to be a gentleman? A gentleman does not sleep in his own filth.”
“I like sleeping in my own filth,” America grumbles, careful not to bruise England with his grip. “Sleeping in my own filth is fun.”
England clicks his tongue in dissatisfaction, and America takes a second to observe how the empire furrows his brow, the way his gloved fingers drum against his hips, and the way his green eyes narrow slightly only to soften seconds later. England‘s expressions have always been so fascinating to America. “Perhaps you wish to take a bath with Canada? That way you will get to know each other better.”
“No!” America shakes his head, pouting. “I want to take a bath with England!”
England runs a hand through his hair, a thoughtful look coming to his face. “How about we all take a bath together, hmm? Canada is a bit shy, but he’s a good boy, dearest.”
America whines in distress, stomping his feet. “England!”
In the end, despite America’s many protests, he finds himself in the tub, with England and Canada at his side. America is in such a bad mood that he can’t even properly enjoy England’s company. He blames this on Canada too, for ruining his alone time with England.
He hates having another brother. Why couldn’t it just be England and him forever? America has never been any good at sharing.
“You’ll come visit again, won’t you, dear Canada?” England is in such a good mood. His smile is so wide America fears it might split his face in two. “I won’t always be here of course, but you can come play with our America. It can’t be all that healthy for you to spend so much time with that French idiot.”
Canada fights off a smile at the empire’s comment on his current guardian. He ducks his head shyly. “Yes. I’d like that very much, England.”
America splashes water at him, hating being the third wheel. He gets a time out for that, but he doesn’t care. England is looking at him again, the way it should always be, and he sticks his tongue out at Canada when the empire isn’t looking. Canada looks down at his feet, and America feels better.
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That would teach the dirty pervert to manhandle England.
“Sweet dreams, my little ones.” England kisses both of them on the forehead when it’s time for bed, his nightshirt stark white against the darkness of the room once the wax candle is extinguished. “Sleep tight.”
America wants to sleep in the same bed with England, but he refrains from calling out to the empire when he closes the door. Canada is here, and America doesn’t want to share the experience with him. He’d much rather stay with the urge to sleep in England’s arms than share his colonizer with his new brother.
Stupid Canada. This is another thing he’s ruined for America.
“I hate you,” he says to the darkness, a heavy scowl on his face.
“I know,” comes Canada’s soft, near whisper response. America can’t see it, but he’s sure the taller colony is clutching his bear to his chest.
“Stay away from England.” America turns around and glares at what he presumes is Canada in the darkness. “He’s mine.”
“I’m not trying to steal England away from you, America,” Canada promises just as softly. He sounds dejected, and America feels a tad bit guilty for about a second before he scoffs loudly. “I have a big brother of my own you know.”
Inwardly thinking England is a much better big brother than France, America grouses, “You better not.”
Because if he did, America really would sock him in the face.
“W-where are you going?” Canada asks when America throws his side of the covers away, his feet dangling off the bed.
“Nowhere,” America answers, jumping off the divan. He takes his pillow with him. “Don’t follow me.”
The corridor is dark and ominous; America has half a mind to turn around and return to his room. The promise of England at the end of the corridor keeps him going though, and the moonlight peeking out through the window helps make the night look less scary.
The door to England’s room is slightly ajar. A servant girl, one with her dark hair in pigtails, is getting ready to close the door when her equally dark eyes land on America. She blinks, but says nothing when she sees the familiar blonde head and cerulean eyes of the young master of the house. Instead, she smiles a shaky smile and lets the young colony pass before going her way. America watches her go, briefly wondering what she was doing in England’s room so late at night. Shaking his head, America peeks his head into the room and his eyes immediately land on the canopy bed. Arthur is reading a book by candle light, his emerald green eyes focused on the old, dusty pages instead of the little colony silently making his way to the divan.
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England puts his book down at the sound of America’s voice. He blinks in surprise at seeing America in his room, not having expected to see the boy after tucking him in. He smiles nonetheless, and pats the space next to him. “I guess it can’t be helped. Come here, love.”
America doesn’t need to be told twice; he crawls into the bed, dragging his pillow along with him. England sweeps him into the warmth of his arms, and smiles at him, and that makes America happy, but not as much as when England tucks his chin on his shoulder and whispers, “I’ve missed you, my dear boy.”
America missed England much, much more, but he says nothing. England gets a sad look on his face whenever America complains too much about how much the empire leaves him alone, and America doesn’t like seeing England sad. He’ll leave that for later. It’s an unbecoming action at his age, but America knows that once it’s time for England to leave, he’ll cling to the edges of his colonizer’s clothes and cry and beg him to say, even though he knows it’s pointless.
“I’ve been visiting you a lot less lately, haven’t I?” England muses, with that vulnerable, sad smile that America associates with England feeling guilt. “You must think me a horrible parental figure. Every time I come back, you’ve grown up so much since the last time I saw you. I feel like one day something very important is going to happen and I won’t be here to witness it.”
“Don’t be sad, England,” America murmurs, on the verge of tears himself. “I don’t like it when you’re sad.”
England takes his hand, kissing the knuckles chastely. He attempts a happier smile. “Sorry, moppet. This old man is just a bit tired from the voyage here. The king was reluctant to let me come, so I can’t stay for long this time either.”
America frowns, thoroughly disappointed despite himself. “Do you always have to do what the king says?”
Closing his eyes with a tired sigh, England pats his colony’s head. “The king is someone very dear to me, love. You’ll understand when you’re older what it means to be a country, and all the responsibilities that come with it.”
“Do you love the king more than you love me?”
Opening his eyes, England’s hand retreats. His smile disappears, and his body seems to get colder. America bites his lower lip, afraid he’s said something wrong.
“America,” the empire says softly, his voice subdued, almost wistful. “America, you must understand. We are not like people, dear. We do not have the freedom to give ourselves entirely to someone else. Our duty, our bodies, everything we are belongs to our people. They are us, and we are them. They must always come first.”
America doesn’t understand, and it must show on his face because England draws him close to his chest, as if to comfort him. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, my sweet boy. If there is one thing we as countries can give away freely, it is our feelings. I will always love you, dearest America.”
“But that doesn’t mean you get to be selfish,” England goes on, running his fingers through America’s hair. “You will always have my love, poppet. But don’t ever ask everything of me, for I cannot give it to you.”
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England nods slowly, almost like he doesn’t want to but can’t really bring himself to lie. “Yes. In a way, that does play a role in the matter. I can never be yours the same way you are mine, but I do love you so very much, America. Never forget or doubt my feelings for you.”
“If…if you can’t be mine, then can you at least never love anyone more than you love me?” America bites his lower lip nervously, fidgeting with his hands. “Um. Besides the Mother Country that is,” he adds hastily, cheeks flushed a bright pink.
England blinks, surprised. Then he laughs, the smile America loves so much lighting up his face. “You stubborn, stubborn boy. Fine.” Another chuckle, another smile, and America’s cheeks grow warmer at the sound of England’s laughter. “I promise. You’ll be my number one, and no one will ever take your place. Happy?”
America is. He is immensely happy. He laughs along with England when the empire sweeps him up his arms again, kissing both his cheeks before ordering him to go to bed. America does without protest, happy to go to sleep encased in England’s warmth.
He’s lulled to sleep by the sound of England’s heartbeat. America makes the most of being in England’s arms, fully aware that he would have to make do without everything that was England for a long time once the busy empire left for the motherland.
But it was okay, because England always came back to America. He always did, and he always would.
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Years pass, and America grows taller.
And as his body grows, so does his mind.
He goes outside more, always careful to keep his strength at bay lest he be accused of being a demon. It has happen before, when one of his nannies accidentally saw him carrying his wounded horse to the stables. America does not know what happened to her; England said he would take care of it, and America never saw the old nanny again. It was the first time he’d seen England look so serious, but when he promised America that everything would be okay and to not worry, America had simply shrugged his shoulders and gone off to play outside.
Outside; it’s a new world to him, the bustling towns and lively villagers. The house England purchased for him is big and mostly isolated, far from the civilizations of the towns. The servants are few and silent, and every five years or so, England replaces them with a new bunch. As to how he replaces them, America does not know. He never sees them again though, and he never asks England about them either.
The friends he’s made are a new breath of fresh air. He’s learned more from them than he’s ever learned from his many tutors. In fact, he often skips his lessons to go to the prairie with them, or to the stables. They share secrets and jokes and stories; the thrilling adventures they have together make for great memories as well.
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The boys turned teenagers talk of kisses behind the farmhouse, of the sweet pastor’s daughter who blushes prettily whenever one of the boys looks at her. They nudge America with their elbows, and with waggling eyebrows ask him for his opinion on who the prettiest girl in town is.
They ask America which girl he likes best, and all America can think of is England and how much he misses him.
He hasn’t seen England in years. Canada visits him often, but England hasn’t come to see him a long time. America knows that as the Mother Country England has to prioritize his work over him, but that doesn’t meant America has to like it. He wishes England would stay with him forever, not two, maybe three weeks a year.
America misses England’s smiles, his hugs, and even his horrible cooking. America misses sleeping in the same bed as England, because England always let him crawl in his bed during a storm or whenever America felt lonely in his too big room. England would wrap his arms around America and hold him close to his breast, gently threading his fingers through the colony’s golden hair to reassure him that everything was okay. England’s arms were always so tender when he held him, his lips so soft and gentle on America’s forehead. The sound of England’s heartbeat beneath America’s ear always helped him fall sleep, as did the scent that was indubitably England that clung to the empire’s skin. It was a gentle, comforting scent that smelled faintly of something sweet and coppery that America couldn’t quite name. Whatever it was, America had come to identify the scent as England, and he often buried his face in the crook of his colonizer’s neck to get a better whiff of it whenever England held him close while they slept.
He feels his cheeks heat up at the memory, and when his friends ask him what’s wrong, America quickly shakes his head and says it’s nothing.
It’s not ‘nothing’ though, America knows it’s not just ‘nothing’. If it was, he wouldn’t-
“Now listen here, young master Jones,” a dry, satirical voice snaps America out of his daze, and he starts when a ruler is swiftly brought down inches away from where his hand is poised to take notes, but is actually doing no such thing. “I am here for one thing, and one thing only, and that is to fill that empty little head of yours with knowledge. Sadly, you remain as stubborn as a mule, and refuse to learn anything. Master Kirkland will not be pleased with your development, child.”
The governess is a young woman by all means, and America often hears the servants gossip in the kitchen about her. They speak mostly of her pretty face, and how it was the only reason England had hired her. The servants speak of other things, foreign words and strange phrases America does not fully understand but somehow still make him feel an odd, warm feeling in the pit of his stomach
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England in love with the young pretty governess?
America is surprised by how angry this piece of knowledge makes him feel.
Puffing his cheeks out, he shrugs his shoulder at the strict woman. “Arthur is always pleased with me,” he retorts, forgetting all of his ingrained manners and chivalry. The bubbling anger is there, it is always there whenever he is in the woman’s presence. “He doesn’t care if I don’t pay attention to stupid lessons.”
Slender brows draw together in disapproval, a set of cupid bow lips set into a frown. “Young master Jones, I suggest you hold your tongue if you have nothing pleasant to say,” she replies loftily, a subtle warning for the young nation to return to the lesson at hand.
Although she was his governess, she had nothing to do with America’s studies but everything to do with his training in manners and court behavior. America had tutors for that, and a Spanish scholar of sharp intellect and broad learning, who had decreed America’s lessons must be rigorous, in charge of overseeing his studies. His name was Juan Luis Vives, and he was thin lipped and ill-tempered. Tufts of dark hair sprouted from his ears. He was never without his walking stick, which had a silver knob at the top in the shape of a fox’s head. America fancied it resembled the tutor himself.
“I see that you have been badly spoiled,” he’d purred in their first lesson, like a cat about to pounce on a mouse. Then he changed into a roaring lion. “It is my belief that children should feel the rod upon their backs at least once a day.”
America remembers feeling slightly sick at the tutor’s words. He’d seen the children of his nannies slapped once or twice, and on one account he’d even seen England reprimand his own servants, but not once had England or anyone else ever struck him.
“Don’t be afraid of him, dear,” his old nursemaid comforted him, hours later after America had rushed to his bedchambers to avoid the wrath of his tutor. “Your brother, Master Kirkland, has made it plain that he is not to lay a hand upon you.”
“I’m not afraid of him!” America had denied the accusation in a heartbeat, but even to this day, he goes out of his way to avoid the scary man. At least until England came back, and then America could ask him to fire the Spaniard and hire a new tutor for him. England hated the Spanish just as much as he hated the French; America was sure he would get him an English tutor once he found out the head butler he left in charge of his colony hired a Spaniard to tutor his little brother.
America’s governess, on the other hand, was completely different from the Spanish scholar, even though they were alike in some aspects. She too was strict, but rather than parade around with an awful stick, she taught America with polite, cold mannerisms that made the colony want to throw his books in the air just to spite her. Whenever America was not with Vives or his tutors in religion and theology or his music teachers, he was with his governess, learning all the rules concerning sitting, standing, kneeling, eating, drinking, dressing, speaking, and every other public act. The lessons were excruciatingly boring, and because the lessons were taught by her, America hated them even more.
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England had indeed hired her the last time he visited America, a little more than four years ago. America was waiting for the day England would return to fire her too. It was what England always did when too many years passed and America showed no signs of aging.
But lately, America had been growing so fast. The first time the governess set foot in the house America had stood as tall as a nine year old. Four years had gone by and now America looked those nine plus four years.
And with those years came new feelings, new sensations and thoughts that made all the blood in his body rush to his face. America doesn’t know what to call them, but they feel alike to running through the vast, open forests without curfew, without rules and without inhibitions.
It’s a strange, scary feeling, and America finds he likes it immensely. And why wouldn’t he? It’s England who makes him feel like this, the same England who America loves so dearly.
So it’s understandable for him to hate the governess. She was trying to take England away from America, of course he would hate her. America was number one in England’s heart, and America was the one England loved best, yet here she was trying to take that position away from him.
“Young master Jones?” Arching a slender eyebrow, the young governess’s honey-brown eyes narrow slightly.
America scoffs, his arms crossed over his chest. He glares at the woman, hating her pretty face and long curly hair and everything else about her that England might like. “You’re no my mother, you don’t tell me what to do.”
Her left eyebrow twitches, her lips pressed into a tight line. “I am not, young master Jones, but if I was your mother, I would wash your mouth with soap.”
“I don’t have a mother,” he replies through gritted teeth, his hands tight fists. He can feel the anger bubble, just waiting to explode. It’s been happening a lot lately, these bouts of sudden, unexplainable anger. He doesn’t know why he’s always angry these days, but he does know the rage is somehow connected to the warm fluttery feeling he gets whenever he thinks of England. “I don’t need one either.”
She looks like she might say something else, or even hit him. She refrains, and takes a deep, long breath, the ruler trembling in her hands. “I pity Master Kirkland,” she says at length, her honey-brown eyes like ice, “for having such a troublesome brother. Not many men his age would stick around to raise their siblings, especially when they are as rotten as you are, young master Jones.”
The words strike a chord in America’s chest, making something twist in his heart. For a second, it feels like he can’t breath, and the room spins. “I’m not a chore,” he says at last, and the pretty governess clucks her tongue.
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She was wrong. She was wrong she was wrong she was wrong. She [had] to be wrong, because if England did not love America…if England didn’t…if England…
“Arthur loves me!” America slams his hands on the desk, the pile of books falling on the thick Persian rug. There’s a loud crack, a sick crunch of wood, and the cheery oak desk crumbles from the force of America’s attack. The governess eyes widen, her hand covering her mouth in horror and she takes a step back. “Arthur loves me more than he loves anyone!”
America grits his teeth, his molars grinding together. His shoulders are shaking, and he does not know if it’s from anger or from the sting of tears in his eyes. “He would pick me over you any day!”
The crown jewel of England, the pearl of England’s world, wasn’t that who America was?
“Yes, I would pick you, Alfred my love.”
Both America and the governess startle. Leaning casually against the library’s closed doors, England smacks his cane into the palm of his hand in the same manner the governess had done mere minutes ago. The action looks more intimidating coming from England, the rich blue and gold of his attire brightening the gloomy library. Like always, he is dressed like a perfect gentleman, not a ruffle out of place. Setting his cane done with a solid thud, he clears the space between him and America with quick, elegant strides. The soles of his high topped boots meeting the floor are the only sound in the room.
America blinks up at him, and realizes with surprise that he stands around three inches and a half above England’s shoulder. He opens his mouth, wanting to say something, anything-but his heart is beating so fast and all he can manage to do is look up at England with wide blue eyes and red cheeks.
He swallows thickly, his tongue as dry as sandpaper. His hands are sticky with sweat, and America feels something akin to butterflies in his stomach. “England-”
“Alfred.” England’s expressions softens, the hard lines disappearing from his face and his lips quirk into a gentle smile. He takes a step backward, and runs his green eyes over the length of America’s body. America’s cheeks turn a darker red. “It seems my little man has done some serious growing,” he states proudly, and leans down to kiss America chastely on the forehead, one gloved hand caressing the colony’s cheek sweetly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner, poppet. Do you forgive me?”
America would have forgiven England for anything as long as he kept smiling at him like that.
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Orz. Sorry, random!author!anon has been sleeping for the past 48 hours. Some really important exams are right around the corner, so even though these parts were done three days ago, I didn’t have time to post them. Never study and forget to sleep, anons, it tires you out hardcore. FYI America is 13-ish here, so expect more of the awkwardness that comes with puberty and hormones soon. Like, wet dreams and inconvenient morning wood hurhurhur~
Please ignore any grammatical errors, it’s 5 AM as I post this ;D
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“I like sleeping in my own filth,” America grumbles, careful not to bruise England with his grip. “Sleeping in my own filth is fun.” This is just awesome, although ... it's a bit scary that he has to worry about physically hurting England just holding onto him. Then again, it's probably just as scary that he's so aware of the need to hold back. ^_^;
England is looking at him again, the way it should always be, and he sticks his tongue out at Canada when the empire isn’t looking. Creepy or cute? I don't even know ... >_>
Oh god, anon, England calls him 'love'. ;asdj fkaf My ultimate weakness, how did you knoooow?
“You must think me a horrible parental figure. Every time I come back, you’ve grown up so much since the last time I saw you. I feel like one day something very important is going to happen and I won’t be here to witness it.” Why England, how naughty! Your foreshadowing is showing. :O
Oh lord, the nanny that saw America carrying his horse ... D:
They ask America which girl he likes best, and all America can think of is England and how much he misses him. Oh America, you're so ... honest. <3
Um. It was a gentle, comforting scent that smelled faintly of something sweet and coppery that America couldn’t quite name. Somehow, that scent kinda sounds forboding, anon. D:D
Daaaamn, England's interest in that last scene in part 15 gave me the biggest hard-on for that character EVER. Good god, anon. And good job, for that matter. <3
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Also, this Brit!Anon appreciates England using 'love' <3
...you make sure you get enough sleep and post next parts soon!!! *wet dreams and morning wood? HELL YEAH!*
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Sweet and coppery...sounds like blood
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Post more soon plz!!!
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This is so seemingly unintentionally dark (but I know you're doing it on purpose, Author!anon. You're just doing it so well. <3). I love it and I can't wait for more.
What goes on around America is more telling than what America actually focuses on.
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Maybe it’s England’s heart-melting smile, the way his green eyes fill with love upon seeing America. His posture changes, relaxing, his shoulders no longer as tense and rigid. The cold, strict mask falls off, and his cheeks flush with happiness, his face alight with warm and tender emotions. It could be any of these small details that make America feel as if his very breath has been knocked out of him, his heart threatening to break free from his ribcage.
“Look at you,” England says with a smile-but his smile looks slightly off, just a little bit sad, just a tiny bit forced. He grips America’s shoulders with barely-but-still trembling fingers, holding him at arm’s length. Not that America notices, he’s too busy staring, his mouth slightly agape. “You’ve grown splendidly, America. My dear baby, I hardly recognize you.”
Licking his suddenly dry lips, America wonders what the strange, warm feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach is. The feeling increases when his eyes fall on England’s lips, not really hearing him, much rather entranced by the sensitive coral-pink folds of skin.
It’s at this moment that America notices how England isn’t as tall as he first thought him to be. He’s of smaller stature than most of the men in town, his frame wiry and lean and quite unlike the strong, bulky bodies of the servants tending the farmlands. England is more like the elegant, sophisticated women America often sees in the bigger, richer towns. Strong but refined, proud and clever and with a touch of royalty to go hand-in-hand with their luscious red lips and coy smiles. England is a true gentleman, not a common, regular farm worker with calloused hands.
England wears silk gloves, and beneath those gloves his fingers are adorned with golden rings and heavy emeralds and blood red rubies. They’re strong hands, with strong fingers that curl expertly around the shaft of a jewel-encrusted sword and the butt of a heavy pistol. They’re soft hands, gentle in the way they touch America; they’re loving hands, careful and attentive whenever they make America’s meals.
England rarely wears his gloves when he touches America; it’s his bare, pale fingers that hold America’s bronzed, rougher ones, and never white silk. He wears them any other time, when he shakes hands, when he drinks tea, when he has meetings, or when he does his paperwork. But when he does anything that relates to America, he rarely, if ever, wears his gloves, almost as if everything else was too filthy for him to touch without some sort of protection.
Blushing, America is suddenly struck by how intimate such a gesture is.
“Just make sure you don’t get taller than me, sport,” England chuckles, and America snaps out of his daze. He hasn’t heard a single word England has said, and neither does he hear the hidden layer of what could only be sadness and fake happiness in England’s laughter. “Promise me you’ll always be my precious baby, hmm? Always be my darling, golden boy.”
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